Drunken Lullabyes
by Fenrir's Daughter
Summary: The wearing of the green always gets Monkey down, but what can Lani do to help him? Dramatic, but at least there's a musical number. MonkeyLani. What's Left of the Flag by Flogging Molly.


I know it's been a week, but I'm stuck with Mel's next chapter, so…Happy belated St. Patrick's Day!

* * *

Lani sighed as she entered the garage, steeling herself for the party; with the Metal Maniacs, _anything_ could happen, especially on a day like today. For you see, today was St. Patrick's Day, a Catholic feast day set aside to celebrate when Saint Patrick drove the serpants out of Ireland, but most people used it as an excuse to get drunk. As she turned the corner, Lani realized the Maniacs were no exception. 

There they were, sitting at a card table, singing and laughing their asses off, drinks in hand... Suddenly, Lani jumped, blushing and slapping the person behind her in the face. Nolo grinned at her sheepishly, blushing along with her; he muttered an apology but gave an excuse:

"You're not wearing green, Lani," he said, and took a swig from his beer. Lani shook her head and sighed; were the Teku drinking, too? What if a Realm opened? What would they do then? Hopefully, they wouldn't have to worry about it, but all the same, Lani decided to make as much noise as possible the next morning to irritate the ones who over indulged; oh, yes, her revenge would be sweet. None would escape her wrath, muahahahahahahahaha.

Nolo tilted his head at her, questioning. "Are you laughing maniacally?"

"NO! WHAT WOULD GIVE YOU THAT IDEA?!"

"Alright, alright, yeesh! It was just a question."

Lani shook her head and decided to enjoy herself; what was the point of fighting it? At the very least she could have a good time. Maybe the Maniacs wouldn't be so bad. She made her way over to the card table, smiling at their drunken idiocy, and found herself slightly dissappointed that Monkey wasn't with them.

"Hey guys," she said, taking a seat. "Don't you think it's a little early for that?"

"No, not in the least," Tork responded, surprisingly eloquent for a man who'd been drinking since he woke up that morning. Lani noticed he wasn't wearing his usual red tee shirt, but a green one; Wylde had on an old New York Celtics jersey and Porkchop had green streaks in his hair, while Taro had made a small concession to the holiday with a little shamrock necklace.

"Yeah," Porkchop agreed, slurring his speech, "you just don't understand the complex traditions of our St. Patrick's Day...traditions."

Taro rolled his eyes with a smirk, and Lani couldn't help but smile, too. "What if you have to race?" she said. "You're not planning on driving like this, are you?"

Taro raised a hand. "Designated drivers," he said, pointing to Wylde and himself. "He's too young to drink."

Lani glared at him for a moment. "What about you?"

He looked away. "You know the answer to that one" was all he said. Indeed, Taro's drinking was one of the reasons she had left him, and he had since joined Alchoholics Anonymous to try and better himself. He had in fact not had a drink in three months.

Suddenly, Lani looked up; Monkey had entered the garage, Guiness stout in hand, wearing an oil stained green tee shirt with a white shamrock on the chest, and sat on the work bench across from the card table. He sighed, then gave an easy smile, but to Lani it seemed a little forced. He raised his bottle, nodding to his fellow Maniacs.

"Erin go bragh, me boyos," he said, and the others raised their glasses, cheering. His eyes fell on Lani, and he fumbled with himself like he always did. Something about her made him nervous, but in a good way. He was falling hard and fast, but there was nothing to be done about it. "Hey, Lani! When did you get here?"

"Oh, right before you," she said, and gestured to his drink. "You guys love St. Patrick's Day, don't you?"

"Well, uh, I don't, um, know about them, but I _am_ Irish, so-"

"Oh, yeah. McClurg. I shoulda figured you were green." Tork, Taro, Porkchop and Wylde laughed at this, but Monkey was agrivated by it.

"That's not funny. The damn Brits have been calling us that for centuries, and I for one am not particularly fond of the term. It's the same as you calling Tork the N-word, and if you're gonna talk to me like that, then I'll _leave_."

Lani watched as he turned her back on her, dumbfounded; he was usually such an easy gouing guy, always good for a laugh, but he apparently was very sensitive about his heritage. "What's his problem?" she whispered, and Tork answered her.

"He's totally Irish, one hundred percent on both sides. His mother grew up in New York City, a neighborhood called Hell's Kitchen, and his father was from Belfast, Norhtern Ireland. Sorry 'bout that; didn't think he would react like that. He'll get over it."

Lani nodded, but she went to find him all the same.

* * *

She found him at the kitchen counter, downing shots of whiskey. He didn't even look at her. 

"Hey," she said, but Monkey only grunted. "what's up?" He didn't answer. After a moment, Lani walked a little closer to him, and tried again. "C'mon, don't be like that. Everyone's having fun, don't let something little get you down...I'm really sorry, okay?"

Monkey sighed, looking up at her. "No, I'm sorry. Patty's always kinda gets me down."

"Yeah?" Lani found herself staring at him, and noticed the light freckles on the bridge of Monkey's nose. Had those always been there?

"My, uh, my Da's from Northern Ireland, and around this time of year he'd get a bit depressed, ya know? He'd tell us all about growing up in the mean streets of Belfast, and the mistakes he'd made...what happened to my uncle, Seamus..."

Her eyes widened, and she pulled up a stool; Lani had heard about the Troubles, how some people in Northern Ireland wanted to remain British citizens, but most wanted home rule, and how the Catholics and Protestants were constantly at each others' throats. "What happened?"

"In 1972," Monkey continued, "there was a gang called the Shankill Butchers, and for every Protestant that was killed by the Irish Republican Army, or even accidently, they would find and kill three Catholics, even if they had no connection to the IRA. My Da's brother Seamus was a victim. Da, and even Gran-Gran, sometimes, would talk about how they found him; he was alive, but just barely, and he didn't make it. It was years before I was even born, but it always depressed the hell outta me to hear about it, and Da got so nostalgic around Patty's, y'know, longing for the Emerald Isle? But I guess that's no excuse. I can still remember, though, what Da used to say about it, so vividly..."

Monkey sloshed his shot glass about, looking into it, and began to sing softly, almost to himself.

_His eyes they close  
and his last breath spoke  
he had seen all to be seen  
a life once full  
now an empty vase  
wilt the blossoms  
on his early grave_

_walk away me boys  
walk away me boys  
and by morning we'll be free  
wipe that golden tear  
from your mother dear  
and raise what's left  
of the flag for me_

Suddenly, Monkey slammed his glass down on the table, startling Lani, and looked right at her.

_then the rosary beads  
count to 1 2 3  
fell apart as they hit the floor  
in a garb of black  
we must pay respect  
to the color we were born to mourn  
walk away me boys  
walk away me boys  
and by morning we'll be free  
wipe that golden tear  
from your mother dear  
and raise what's left  
of the flag for me_

Monkey stood up, pushing his chair back as he rose, and took a step up to the counter. Tork, Porkchop, and Wylde had entered the room and watched as the Maniac mechanic sang his hear out in loving memory of a man he never knew.

"Oh, he's telling _that_ story again," Wylde sighed. "I heard about him, the poor guy."

Lani nodded, but she wasn't really paying the other Maniacs any mind; she was listening to Monkey. Who knew he was so passionate? She grew entranced, watching and listening, and found herself heavily sympathetic. She knew what it was like to lose someone, and being judged for who you are was no picnic, either.

_In a spiked ruin  
an angry festered wound  
full of hatred and remorse  
where I pick and scratch  
at the blooded mess  
silent rage that now fills my lungs  
for there are many ways  
to kill a man they say  
with bayonet, axe or sword  
but soon a bullet fired  
from a shapeless gun  
just put the shell of a Thompson gun_

_walk away me boy  
walk away me boys  
and my morning we'll be free  
wipe that golden tear  
from your mother dear  
and raise what's left  
of the flag for me_

_from the east out to the western shore  
where many men and many more will fall  
but no angel flys with me tonight  
though freedom reigns on all  
and curse the name for which  
we slaved our days  
so every men chose Kingdom Come_

_But sure as night turns day  
it's the fashion pallay  
oh my god  
what have they done  
with madmen rage  
well the dogged craze  
but the dead rise again you fools_

_walk away me boy  
walk away me boys  
and my morning we'll be free  
wipe that golden tear  
from your mother dear  
and raise what's left  
of the flag for me_

His singing slowed back down to a melancholy lament, and Lani approached him, hoping she could cheer Monkey up, but she wasn't sure; she understood how the holidays could get you down, but she'd never heard of St. Patrick's Day depression. In any case, she felt a certain something for Monkey she had never felt, even back when she was with Taro. What was this feeling?

_walk away me boy  
walk away me boys  
and my morning we'll be free  
wipe that golden tear  
from your mother dear  
and raise what's left  
of the flag for me_

Monkey sighed to himself, sitting back down, a single tear falling down his cheek, and Lani kissed it away. He looked at her, startled, and knew it was only the beginning. He smiled up at her, and looking towards his friends, raised his glass.

"To Seamus Patrick McClurg," he said. "May he rest in peace."

"To Seamus," they answered him, and drank.

* * *

A/N: Yeah, so I've been thinking about this for quite awhile; this ain't just some fresh plot. I actually have plans involving this plot in coming chapters of Sweet Melissa, so...yeah. The Shankill Butchers were a real gang in Belfast in the seventies and they really did kill three Catholics for every Protestant. You know I had to put MonkeyLani in there, because they need each other. Totally. Erin go bragh. 


End file.
